Читать книгу A Husband In Her Stocking - Christine Pacheco, Christine Pacheco - Страница 11

Three

“Do you see them?” The newer angel’s words were breathless, woven on puffs of air coming from a divinely distant realm.

Lexie smiled as another blip of pure-pink energy zapped past her. “It’s a good sign,” the older angel agreed, folding in her right wing gracefully when another burst of sensually radiant energy sailed by.

“I’m so glad we were able to squeeze so much snow from the clouds.” Grandma Aggie’s eyes opened wide and she looked over her shoulder, as if fearing repercussions from the admission. She twisted her hands together, then she sighed. “Oh, Lexie, do you suppose our reprimand wilt be terrible?”

Lexie smiled serenely, no stranger to breaking the rules. Where Meghan was concerned, Lexie often followed her heart rather than her head. She simply couldn’t bear to watch her darling granddaughter suffer. And now with a co-conspirator... well, Archangel Michael had said it best, himself...trouble had doubled since Aggie’s arrival several years ago, when the two had become fast celestial friends. It hadn’t been long before their individual goals for Meghan and Kyle had become a mutual plan. “I’m sure we’ll have some answering to do.”

Another strand of Grandma Aggie’s hair, black as the coal Santa would leave for some, turned gray.

“But it’s Christmas, and the others are distracted making wishes come true,” Lexie added. “And that’s all we’re doing. Trying to make wishes come true.”

“But neither of them wished for each other.”

“That’s simply beside the point,” Lexie said, sending a mental message of peace to her partner in crime—or in this case, romance.

“They’ll realize soon enough they wished for each other,” Lexie continued, then added her silent hope that her promise would prove true. “If we’re very lucky, Meghan will believe in Christmas again. Then we’ll be rewarded with wings of gold, instead of being chastised.” She straightened the halo that had, oddly enough, tipped to one side.

“Oh, dear me, do look!” Aggie pointed to Meghan.

A flush had stolen over Meghan’s face, and her breathing pattern had changed, becoming more shallow by the moment.

Kyle, Aggie’s grandson, took a step into the kitchen.

“He is handsome,” Lexie approved, holding her hands near her heart and feeling the soothing balm of heat.

“Not only that, but he’s a good person inside,” Aggie added loyally.

The sensual chemistry between the two humans wavered in the air, sending shock waves of vibrancy into the atmosphere.

Kyle’s jeans rode low on his hips as he took another step, skittering tension everywhere.

“My...my goodness,” Aggie breathed.

“I guess the rest is up to them.” Lexie spread her wings wide, enveloping the newer arrival in the protective folds. “Er...it’s not polite to peek when things like this start to...” She searched for the right word, cleared her throat. “Percolate.”

“Oh. Oh, my.”

Lexie cracked her gum, ignoring the gentle waves of chastisement buffeting her from above. “Now to think of a suitable excuse so our silver wings don’t get taken away. Puppy duty is entirely too much work....”

Kyle took a second, then third, and finally a fourth step into the kitchen, and Meghan slumped in her chair.

There was something about him, something so real and powerful that made rational thought impossible.

She picked up her cup, holding it with a shaky hand, well aware of Kyle’s intense perusal. Fingers slightly unsteady, she raised her tea to take a deep drink, only to succeed in scalding her tongue.

Kyle took a seat across from her. The sight of his half-naked body was a visual feast. His chest seemed broader this close, and her mind noted each detail of his muscular build. Well-developed biceps spoke of strength, making her wonder what it might feel like to be cradled, protected.

The scattering of dark hair made her fingers tingle in anticipation. The way denim conformed to his muscles induced thoughts she hadn’t known she was capable of.

Meghan hadn’t ever had a lewd thought.

Until now.

Even though the power had failed, electricity all but hummed around them.

He reached for the teakettle and grabbed a mug from the cup tree on the table. His hand stilled, and he glanced around. “Did you hear something?”

Meghan heard precious little above the rush of blood humming through her veins.

“A rustling, like feathers?”

She shook her head.

With a shrug, he said, “Must be hearing things.” Then he placed the mug on the table. “How do you do this?”

“Do what?” The words emerged weak and broken. Breathing took an act of incredible concentration.

“Make tea.” He grinned. “I haven’t done it before.”

Her breath expelled in a heartbeat.

“Which do I put in first, the water or the bag?”

She’d never imagined that mundane conversation could require so much effort. Then again, this was a first for her. “Tea bag first.”

“Gotcha.”

He followed her instructions, then started to squeeze the excess tea from the bag.

“Don’t.” She automatically reached across the table to stop his motion, placing her hand on top of his.

He dropped the tea bag.

The warmth of human touch stole into her.

She gulped, commanding her brain to move her hand away.

She couldn’t.

Then Kyle sealed her hand within his. And suddenly, all oxygen vanished from the room.

Her skin was warm and soothed, her heart fast and furious. Her mouth was dry while her insides moistened with recognized need.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the unwelcome feeling. She didn’t want, didn’t need anyone. Especially Kyle Murdock.

But their gazes locked, and urgency in his eyes communicated to her.

Imminent danger cloaked her, and she needed to escape. With more resolution than she actually felt, she pulled her hand free.

She blinked, telling herself she’d imagined the sensory assault.

But her hand trembled.

She hadn’t imagined it. It was there, and real as anything she’d ever experienced. Looking skyward, she offered a silent plea for help. Her emotions were tangled around and within her physical response, and she didn’t know what to do, how to act. The snow needed to end—now. The roads needed to be clear by dawn.

A gust of wind slashed the window with a sheet of driven white snow.

Obviously, she would receive no help from above.

Which left her alone...with Kyle and simmering awareness.

“Does it really make a difference?”

She stalled for seconds, then gave in and looked at him. “Make a difference?” Meghan tried for a light, airy tone. She’d been so caught up in mental, as well as the all-too physical, images of him, she hadn’t been able follow his conversation.

He grinned, cocking his head to the side. Coherent thought was impossible when that damnable lock of hair fell across his forehead again. She wanted to brush back the wayward hair, absorb each tactile sensation.

“The tea, not squeezing it?”

A thousand sensations had crowded her; not a single one of them concerned tea. “It’s, er, less bitter that way.”

“Some things are less bitter if they do get squeezed.”

Oh, Lord. She was sinking. Drowning.

This was all so unreal, couldn’t possibly be happening. Winter’s fury made her feel isolated and stranded, as if Kyle were the only link to the outside world.

After a few more moments of intense study, Kyle seemed to sense her discomfort. Breaking eye contact, he put two spoons of sugar in his cup, stirred, sipped, then cringed.

“It’s not coffee,” she supplied, retreating from intimacy like a shadow hiding from the sun.

“You can say that again.” He added another mound of sugar, then stirred again.

“Next time I’ll make instant coffee.”

“This is fine.”

His lie hung on the air, making her smile. Kyle was a lousy liar—maybe on a par with her.

“Okay, so I’ll choke it down.”

She thought of seizing the opportunity to vanish back upstairs. For a reason she was reluctant to name, she suppressed the nudge of self-preservation and stayed.

Meghan hadn’t known she liked to flirt with danger... until Kyle showed up on her doorstep.

Now it seemed she not only wanted to skirt it, but wanted to experience, feel, see, taste it. She wondered if he’d be as apt a teacher as she pictured.

With unabashed interest, she watched him swallow another drink of tea, cataloging his frown. “There’s hot chocolate in the cupboard,” she said.

With eagerness, he stood and asked, “Which cupboard?”

She pointed, and he opened the door, choosing the box with miniature marshmallows and real sugar. Then he picked up Lexie, her clay angel, from the counter and carried both back to the table.

Lantern light danced as the air stirred, creating a secluded atmosphere. Maybe, she told herself as he invaded her space again, knees brushing beneath the table, she should have run while she had the chance.

“My Grandmother Agnes, or Grandma Aggie as I called her, used to collect angels,” Kyle said, taking another mug from the tree. This time, after his first taste, he gave a satisfied nod. He picked up the molded piece of clay with rosy cheeks and a somewhat battered halo.

It seemed ridiculously small in his big hands, yet he securely cradled the miniature in his palm. Safe. That’s how Lexie looked. And how Meghan felt, despite the myriad reasons she should feel anything but.

“Used to?” she asked softly.

“She died a few years ago.”

Meghan heard the undisguised layer of pain in his tone. “I’m sorry.”

“I am, too. She was someone very special.” He slid the angel onto the tabletop, his fingertip resting briefly on the dried flowers Lexie clutched. “Do you remember where you bought it? I’d love to get one to remember her.”

“I made it. She’s modeled after my grandmother, Lexie.”

“Impressive.”

His note of approval brought a flush of pleasure to her face.

He leaned back in his chair. Kyle either didn’t notice or chose to ignore his very real impact on her.

“Is it a hobby or a job?” he asked.

“I sell them to local stores.”

“You make them here?”

“I have a studio upstairs.”

He nodded. “I’d like to see it.”

Her mind momentarily blanked. No one, ever, had seen her studio. It was her sanctuary, her escape. She didn’t allow trespassers. “Sure,” she lied. Then she sought refuge behind the knowledge he wouldn’t be here long enough to ask again.

“Do you have any more for sale? Angels, that is.”

“Plenty.” She cringed, thinking of the extra inventory adorning the shelves in her studio. “I finished up a batch when you got here. I was supposed to deliver them to town this evening.”

“Maybe I could take some off your hands.”

Polite. The man was polite. Manners of a saint. The sex appeal of a sinner.

“Is business good year-round, or does it peak at Christmas?”

There was that word again, Christmas. She distrusted the word and his motives as much as if he’d just waved a sprig of mistletoe over her head.

Mistletoe.

Just the thought of standing with him, beneath mistletoe made her imagine the feel of his lips on hers.

She banished the very real, very unsettling image—or tried to.

“Meghan?”

“Christmas is the best, businesswise, but I’m working toward building distribution throughout the state. I hope that will make things less seasonal.”

“Why do you dislike it so much?”

She blinked. “Dislike what?”

“Christmas.” He laid the word between them. He met her gaze, captured it, compelled her to continue looking at him. “You wince every time I mention it.”

“I don’t,” she protested, cursing his powers of observation. No other person had so skillfully cut through her outer layer of defense and gone for the heart. She wrapped her hands around the cup of tea, trying to ward off the sudden chill.

“You do.”

Although Kyle appeared outwardly relaxed, she instinctively recognized the deception. His brows were drawn together in intense scrutiny, and his gaze never wavered from being fixed on her.

“You just did it again,” he stated flatly. “Flinched.”

She wondered what he did for a living, but knew whatever it was, he did it well. Single-minded determination was evident in his falsely relaxed posture, tone and questions. He might allow a brief respite, but he always returned to his point.

Meghan shuddered as she toyed with the image of what it might be like to be pursued by him with that awesome, single-minded determination.

He didn’t speak, apparently satisfied to wait on her response.

Kyle took a drink, then returned the mug to the table soundlessly—at least she assumed it to be soundlessly, since her thumping heart filled her ears. He wouldn’t waver. And unless she wanted him to return to the conversation over and over, she had to tell him, sharing the painful memories she’d tried to bury. Maybe if she told him, he’d leave her alone. “I don’t dislike Christmas itself.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the associations with Christmas that I can do without.”

He fingered Lexie’s fragile halo, which was made from dried flowers. Wind lashed the window with a howl, as if violently disagreeing with Meghan’s assessment of the holiday. She shuddered. Yet in the anonymity of the barely luminated night, she found courage. Even though her voice hardly cracked a decibel above a whisper, she confessed, “I’ve never had a real Christmas.”

Kyle’s brows arched. “Never had...?”

“My mother and father are...” She battled disloyalty, hating to say anything bad about anyone—particularly her parents. She settled for a half truth. “Absorbed in their own lives.”

Meghan swept the thick layers of hair back from her face, holding her hand on top of her head while memories dragged to the surface on stubborn heels. “I had nannies who resented not having time off to spend with their own families.”

“Just what kind of parents do you have?”

“Rich ones.”

She saw him take in the kitchen, with its faded vinyl, outdated appliances and seen-better-days curtains. Despite her best intentions, she gave a shallow smile. “I don’t accept their money. They send a check every year.” She waited a couple of beats, then added, “At—”

“Christmas.” This time, Kyle winced.

She dropped her hand and raised her shoulder in a short shrug. “I send it to the childrens’ shelter.”

“They don’t spend the holiday with you?” he asked incredulously.

“Aspen’s quite a drive from here.”

“So they live in the state?”

She shook her head. “They have places in France and Florida. They just fly to Colorado for two weeks each year. Great skiing. Even better parties.”

“And they don’t come to see you?”

“They did. Once.”

Kyle’s four-letter word was ferocious and forceful. She grimaced. “And Santa Claus?” he asked, leaning forward, adding to the intimacy, stealing rational thought.

“Didn’t have time to stop at my house.”

“Jeez, Meghan, what the hell kind of life is that for a kid?”

“At least it was a little better than the Christmases when I was left at boarding school.”

Kyle’s hands tightened into fists. “That’s not the way it is.” Each word was tight, leashed with control. “Not the way it should be.”

“Maybe not,” she said softly, the sharpness of his voice reverberating in the quiet. “But it’s the only way I’ve ever known. There was one night,” she said softly, “that my nanny found me asleep on the stairs, waiting for Santa Claus, for my parents to come home and tell me they loved me, waiting for some of the Christmas magic people talk about.”

In a painful whisper, she added, “It never happened.”

“I’m going to change that,” he vowed.

For the hesitant flash of a stolen moment in time, she believed him.

Reality rushed back in an unwelcome return. She hadn’t felt disappointment only once. She’d experienced the sting twice, as if the heavens weren’t satisfied with a single serving.

A mother’s inflicted pain had been nothing in comparison to the anguish caused by a man who’d stood in front of a preacher, looked in her eyes and swore he would love and cherish her, forever.

And that part was her secret.

Years later, Meghan still had trouble believing anyone could be as coldly merciless as Jack had been on their first holiday together.

Feeling a tear form, she rapidly blinked, refusing to give in again.

“You don’t believe me.”

Meghan might be a fool once, maybe even twice, but never three times. She met Kyle’s eyes, as bleak as his words. “No. I don’t. Christmas isn’t for everyone. It isn’t for me.”

In a fluid motion that belied his size, he stood, the chair toppling with a resounding crash. He demolished the distance between them, placing his hands on her shoulders and pulling her up to face him.

She tried to swallow, but there wasn’t enough moisture to make it possible. His masculine scent surrounded her, making her thinking clash simultaneously into thoughts of safety and danger. She feared for her own sanity and her ability to keep a foothold on the reality life had dealt her.

His look was purposeful.

Meghan trembled with anticipation.

When he drew her closer with firm pressure, she didn’t resist. Just for now she wanted to succumb to the thundering impulses inside.

She felt his hands in her hair, tangling in the sleep-tousled strands. Gently, he moved a hand down, skimming her neck, her spine, spreading across her upper back and holding her tight.